


Over the Waves

by cincoflex



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Charles the Overachiever, F/M, Make Way for Ducklings, another classical music title, love takes many forms, still in love and lust, the 50s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-11-07 02:39:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11049585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: Into the new year of 1954 and all the Winchesters are facing big changes, including Charles and Charlotte. Can they handle it?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, a bit of a sequel because really, I love un-stuffing a stuffy character. And feedback. That stuff is great.

_March, 1954_

The phone rang. Charlotte could hear it all the way downstairs, and knew Mrs. Jackson would answer it and then call up the stairs if it was important. For the moment all that mattered was getting finishing touches done on the piece in front of her, and with that in mind, Charlotte stared at the canvas once more, concentrating.

The frame on her easel was a long affair, perfect for the seascape she was creating, and most of the oils were still glittering in the clear light coming through the back windows of the house. Charlotte shivered a little as she did a tiny touch up on one edge of a cresting wave, wishing it wasn’t so chilly and wondering if there was any more coffee.

“Ma’am, it’s Missus Winchester,” Mrs. Jackson called up. “You busy?”

“No, I’ll be right down. Thank you,” Charlotte called back, setting aside the palette and hastily wiping her hands. She made it down the spiraling stairs a little quickly and fought a twinge of dizziness before picking up the receiver from the hall table phone. “Good morning Pamela.”

“Good morning, Charlotte,” came Pamela Winchester’s clear voice. “Are we still on for lunch today?”

“Yes, of course,” Charlotte assured her, feeling guilty at having forgotten the date. “Absolutely. Eh, where are we going again?”

“We are stopping at Phipps Street to lay a few flowers and then having lunch at the Boston Belle, dear. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” Charlotte replied, looking at her reflection in the hall mirror. “Just lost track of time. When am I picking you up again?”

“In an hour.” Now Pamela’s voice was definitely amused. “Time enough for you to clean the paint off yourself.”

“Is it that obvious?” Charlotte laughed gently, and her mother-in-law did too.

“Painting always makes you a little pre-occupied, dear; it’s one of those wonderful things about you. I’ll see you soon.”

Charlotte shook her head as she hung up, amused.

The Phipps Street Burial Ground wasn’t far, and Charlotte found a place to park the Nash fairly close to the front gate. She and Pamela climbed out into the chilly March air and gathered up the bouquets from the back seat.

“It’s just a personal tradition,” Pamela murmured to her softly. “But I _do_ so like to make sure I visit once a year.”

Charlotte nodded. Given her father’s business she understood better than most people the comfort in remembering the dead and honoring family. She collected the remaining three bouquets and followed Pamela through the black iron gates and onto the pathway as her mother-in-law led the way. No one else was out but there were a few other flowers at various stones; bright spots against the green of the gently rolling lawn.

“First is Captain Daniel, who is over here,” Pamela told her. “He’s the one in the portrait you and Charles have. He gets the gladiolas I think. Win told me Captain Daniel was one of the founders of the Boston Yacht club, so for that alone he deserves a little remembrance, don’t you think?”

The stone was weather-worn and chiseled with a flowery script that read: _Daniel Ezra Winchester, b. 1792 Welcomed to the Harbor of God, d. 1875_ Around the edges were curls done as ocean waves, and at the base of the stone was a carved anchor—altogether a beautiful piece of work. 

Approvingly Charlotte set the spray of gladiolas down and both women stood in silence looking at it for a moment.

“There.” Pamela sighed. “I never met the man, obviously, but I used to say good morning to his portrait every day when I passed it in the front hall. Silly I suppose but one does things like that. Charles always liked the picture, and we gave it to him when he bought the house on Acorn Street, so now I greet the African violets in the hall but it’s not quite the same.”

Charlotte gave her a smile. “I’ll see what I can do about greeting him myself then—good traditions should be kept.”

She got a smile in return, and they moved on. There were carnations for Pamela’s Uncle Edwin Abbot, (“Never married, taught Latin at Choate. Darling man.”); and a pale bouquet for Norah Abbot Collins her mother, (Here all alone after Father was lost at the Battle of San Juan Hill thanks to that bully Roosevelt.”) That left two bunches of flowers by the time they’d reached one of the far corners of the burying ground.

Charlotte watched as they approached two newer stones; one heart-breakingly small and carved with a woolly lamb next to the taller one. With a pang, she saw both last names were Winchester. Pamela turned to her, and for the first time her mother-in-law looked melancholy.

“This is Jane and Timothy; Win’s first wife and son,” she murmured, reaching for the bouquets. Stunned, Charlotte blinked, looking from the stones to Pamela, who was busy fiddling with the flowers. “I didn’t think Charles had told you. Yes, Win was married previously. Jane was one of my dearest friends and they were a good match. I was her maid of honor, in fact.”

“Oh,” Charlotte managed, not sure what else to say. Pamela looked up, her eyes bright, and her mouth trembling a little.

“The Spanish Flu,” she sighed. “It was horrible, taking so many good people after the Great War. Too many. Timothy was only six when he . . . and then just days later, Jane herself. Win was beside himself with grief. He blamed himself for going to France, for leaving them for so long. I couldn’t stand by and watch him die by inches so when enough time had passed . . . I married him.”

Charlotte cleared her throat trying to think of something to say. “He loves you.”

“Yes. But it took a while,” Pamela admitted. “At least on _his_ side. I’m sure you’ve figured out that Winchesters are a little reserved when it comes to matters of the heart, but oh when they _do_ love, it’s a blessing.”

She stooped to lay the white and pink roses at the base of the headstone, and even though Charlotte stepped back to give her some privacy, she still heard Pamela’s words. “Jane my dear. We miss you so, even now. I brought you the pink this year; they look good against the clover. Win is well, darling. Rest easy.”

Shifting, Charlotte held out the little bouquet of yellow rosebuds and Pamela laid it in front of the smaller stone. “Timothy. Your auntie Pamela misses you too, but I’m glad you’re with your mama.”

Charlotte blinked, trying not to cry but it was nearly impossible as she realized Pamela had clearly been doing this for years. Coming to lay flowers on the graves and speak softly to the last traces of loved ones all on her own. When Pamela looked up, Charlotte couldn’t quite stop a sniffle.

“Oh darling,” She found herself being hugged. “It’s all right. Nearly thirty-four years, and I’ve quite made my peace with it all. Coming here keeps me . . . humble, I suppose. Aware that I _do_ have a good life, all things considered.”

“Yes but it’s beautiful and sad at the same time,” Charlotte blurted. “Poetic.”

Pamela gave a little chuckle. “It’s a duty, but one I enjoy. This is a peaceful place and one of the prettiest in Boston. When I come here in March there are blossoms just coming out, and birds, and that lovely sense of spring just around the corner. So while it’s a little sad, I generally find a lot of joy in it too, my dear.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte nodded, pulling out her handkerchief and wiping her eyes. “For sharing it. For telling me.”

“Thank you for hearing it,” Pamela replied. “Not that it’s a secret, precisely, but Win rarely speaks of Jane or Timothy, and neither Charles nor Honoria really know much about them. Sometimes I worry . . .” she hesitated, and then spoke on, in a rush, “I worry that Charles pushes himself hard because of the memory of Timothy. It’s the only aspect of life he cannot be _first_ in, you see, so he tries to make up for it in other ways.”

They headed back the way they’d come, following the path.

Charlotte thought about it for a moment and nodded. “It’s possible, although it’s hard to tell. He tends to excel because he expects to most of the time and I’m not sure if that’s a Winchester trait, or a _Charles_ trait, to be honest.”

Pamela laughed. “Probably both! He’s very like Win at times and you’ll find that a blessing and a curse if you haven’t already. So onto the Boston Belle?”

“Yes, that wou . . .” Charlotte began, but went pale as a wave of nausea made her break into a cold sweat. She brought her handkerchief up again but not quickly enough, and the thin stream of vomit splattered out onto the pathway at her feet as she swayed.


	2. Chapter 2

Charles tried not to look irritated but he’d been interrupted twice already while working on patient notes, so when Nurse Sheridan peeked around the door of his office a third time, he sighed in resignation. “Yes?”

“Sorry, but I thought you ought to know that there’s a Mrs. Winchester down in the lobby," the nurse told him. 

Charles brightened a bit. Charlotte didn’t visit often, knowing full-well how busy his practice was, but he always enjoyed it when she did. “Well then have her come up, Thank you.”

“No sir,” the nurse replied. “I meant she’s in Admitting.”

That got him out of his chair, and Charles shoved aside the chart, moving down the hall to the stairs at the end of it, lab coat flaring, hurrying down them as he tried to stay calm. The ebb and flow of daily traffic seemed against him, and Charles wove around gurneys, patients and visitors until he reached the lobby of the hospital, his attention focused on the front desk where he spotted a familiar figure speaking with the nurses there. 

Charles surged forward, turning a professional eye on his mother, mentally checking her over in a glance. No pallor, no sagging features, no obvious injury. “Mother,” he murmured, relieved. “What are you _doing_ here?”

“Trying to get someone to do their _job_ ,” came her annoyed response. “Honestly, this is as irritating as trying to find a salesclerk at Macys!”

“Doctor Winchester,” the desk nurse spoke up, her tone firm. “Your mother here doesn’t seem to understand that I can’t just give her a wheelchair, especially for an un-admitted person!”

“I’m not asking for a permanent gift, young lady!” Pamela fumed, “You’ll be getting it _back_ , you know!”

“Mother,” Charles tried to soothe her, well-aware that tempers were rising quickly. “What do you need it for? You look reasonably ambulatory to me.”

“Well for _Charlotte_ of course!” His mother glanced up at him and nearly rolled her eyes. “The poor thing took ill while we were at Phipps this morning and has been sick to her stomach twice! Honestly, she looks so dreadfully pale that I made her bring us here forthwith.”

Charles quickly looked around the waiting room, feeling a sense of panic that increased when he didn’t see his wife. “Where _is_ she?”

“Right---oh . . .” Pamela waved to an empty seat, and looked perplexed. “Well she _was_ right there.”

“Charlotte?” Charles rumbled, and began to circle the chairs, his lab coat flapping as he did so. His mother joined him, and one timid man pointed a finger to an alcove with a drinking fountain.  
Charlotte looked up from it, her expression pre-occupied; Charles loomed towards her, studying her face. “Charlotte, what’s wrong; how do you feel?” She was pale, but her quick smile reassured him.

“I’m fine,” she told him. “Just a little tummy upset, nothing to worry about.”

“We’ll see about that.” He guided her out of the waiting room, shooting his mother a ‘stay put’ look, and steered Charlotte to one of the empty examination rooms before turning to face her again. “You are a _nurse_ ,” Charles reminded her pointedly. “You would have never agreed to come in if it was something minor, Charlotte my love. What’s going on?”

She bit her lips before blurting, “You’re right of course, but your mother can be very insistent. Given my symptoms, It’s possible I’m . . . pregnant.”

Charles drew in a breath. “But we haven’t . . . that is, we are still taking . . . precautions.”

Charlotte shot him an arch look. “My birthday.”

“Your birthday,” Charles echoed and felt his face flush as the salacious memories came flooding back in a rush. The magnificent Rachmaninoff concert at the symphony hall, the intimate dinner at Marliave, and after that the better part of a bottle of Colheita Port followed by a few rounds of exuberant lovemaking that late January night.

They locked gazes and smirked at the same time; Charles loved the pink flush on her face as she giggled, adding, “We took precautions, but I suspect they were slightly _flawed_ that particular evening.”

“Agreed, given that both of us were comfortably in our cups at the time,” Charles agreed, pulling her into his arms. “Good Lord. I suppose we should arrange for a Hogben test to confirm matters then. Other than that, how do you feel?”

“Good,” came her quick reply. “But by my calculations I’m only about eight weeks along and I don’t want to get your mother’s hopes up just yet. Can we test without letting her know?”

“She’ll suspect,” Charles pointed out, “But we can try. After a urine sample you should go home and rest. I’ll see about setting an appointment with Aubrey Colman in Obstetrics.”

He kissed her forehead and hugged her for a long moment, savoring the way she hugged him back, arms squeezing him tight. “Oh mio orso, I hope this is it. I _love_ you.”

“I do too, and I love you as well,” Charles assured her, feeling absurdly happy.

*** *** ***

Charles could tell by the arch of her elegant eyebrow that his mother wasn’t buying the ‘food poisoning’ story but she agreed that Charlotte should go home and rest. After they’d left, he carried the vial of urine down to the laboratory himself, moving past the blood and digestive enzyme stations to the little alcove assigned to obstetrics where an elderly doctor looked up from her tray of slides.

“Ah, Winchester, our head of thoracic, yes? Are you lost?” 

“No,” Charles assured her, looking at her name badge, “Ah, Doctor Moreno. I have a test I’d like run on this specimen as soon as possible, please.” He held out the vial.

Doctor Moreno looked at it and then back at him. “Urinalysis is back that way.”

“Not a panel. A Hogben test.” It felt odd to say it aloud, Charles thought, but no less thrilling.

“Paperwork?” she wanted to know, taking the vial in one lean hand.

“There isn’t any yet. It’s for me and my wife,” he confessed, trying not to blush again. 

Doctor Moreno smiled, her face becoming merry. “Oh my goodness. Yes, well I can understand your urgency. Shall we go pick out a toad then, Doctor Winchester?” Rising up she led the way.

Within twenty minutes the newly injected and slightly disgruntled toad was in her own tank, glaring malevolently at Charles as Doctor Moreno affixed a label on the glass front. “There. It’s . . .” she checked her wristwatch, “Just after ten, so we’ll check for eggs around six this evening before you head home if you’d like.”

“Ah, yes, thank you,” Charles murmured, feeling a little overwhelmed as the reality of it all started to set in.

Doctor Moreno was still watching him, and gave him a smile. “Your first?”

He blinked. “It will be, if it is.”

“How wonderful. I hope the best for you both then. Now if you’ll excuse me I have some tumor cross-sections to get back to,” she told him.  
Charles wandered back to his office and tried to pick up where he’d left off with the charting, but his mind was determined to dwell on this new possibility and rather than fight it, he pulled out a notepad and began jotting things down.

_Update will and insurance,_ he wrote. _Christening. Godparents? Buy Spock book._  
It miffed Charles that Benjamin Spock was a Yale man, but nothing could be done about that; The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care WAS the standard in Pediatrics. Everyone knew that.

_Buy crib_ , he jotted, _Decorate nursery._  
He tried to picture an infant with Charlotte’s elfin features and dark eyes, and the delightful image made his stomach flutter.

A baby.

A new little person.

He stood up, pacing around his office, too excited to sit still. Charles glanced at his calendar, aware that he had two consultations in an hour, but until then—

Without further thought Charles headed down to the maternity wing, striding along purposefully until he reached the large glass viewing window of the nursery. Most of the little bassinettes were empty, but three held ruddy-faced swaddled infants. He looked through the glass, studying them. 

“Which one’s yours?” came a question from his left. Charles glanced over at the earnest young man in an MBTA uniform who was looking intently at the babies as well.

“None of them,” Charles admitted, adding, “yet.”

“Mine’s that big guy on the right. Max,” the man admitted with a grin as he pointed. “We’re bringing him home today when Pauline gets discharged.”

“Congratulations,” Charles murmured kindly. “He looks robust.”

“Eight pounds,” the man bragged. “That’s the size of a bowling ball.”

“It’s a good weight,” Charles nodded, amused at the comparison. “Your first?”

“First boy,” the man replied. “He’s gonna be spoiled by his two sisters and _how._ ”

The man’s joy was evident and it warmed Charles through and through. He turned and made his way into the wing, looking for the offices and reaching Doctor Colman’s but before he could knock it flew open and an angry-looking woman in a lab coat stormed out, muttering an apology for bumping him before she strode off down the hall.

Charles looked in; Aubrey Colman was rubbing a red mark on his cheek and looking furtive. When he caught sight of Charles he cleared his throat and whipped up a superficial smile. “Sorry you had to see that; sometimes Doctor Mayfield gets testy when questioned about her . . . unorthodox ideas. How may I help you?”


	3. Chapter 3

The driving lesson wasn’t going well, and Charlotte could sense that Honoria’s attention wasn’t on it. They were still in the parking lot along the wharf and the only people out and about this early on a Tuesday were fishermen who ignored them.

“I’m s-s-sorry Char,” Honoria sighed. “I’ll try again.”

“It’s okay, time’s up anyway,” Charlotte told her. “Most of it is just building the habit of using the clutch. Be grateful we’re not in one of the old jeeps; those took some real _strength_ to shift.”

Honoria flashed a smile. “H-how was the speed?”

“Terrifying at times,” Charlotte admitted, “especially when Doctor Pierce drove. But you’re doing great and you’ll be ready for your test by Easter. So what’s got you so distracted?”

Honoria gave another sigh and leaned forward, pressing her forehead on the rim of the steering wheel before speaking. “E-E-Everything!” It all came out as Charlotte patiently listened around the stammer: Pamela’s insistence on a coming-out party in June; the longing for a part-time job; the cute neighbor two doors up the street and worst of all, her growing fascination with jazz.

“Ch-Charles would b-blow a fuse if he knew I w-w-was taking up the b-b-bass! He thinks jazz is a w-waste of time. Between him and m-mother I’m going nuts.”

“Okay, that’s a lot on your plate,” Charlotte agreed, motioning for them to change places. They both got out of the Studebaker and she settled into the driver’s seat before speaking again. “But you’ve got a right to have a say in your own life, ‘Noria. I don’t know if we can get you out of the party, but I’m on your side about the job, yes. As for jazz . . .” Charlotte gave a little shrug as she started the car, “Everyone should be allowed to like what they like. I can talk to Charles but I can’t promise to change his mind.”

“Th-thanks Char,” Honoria replied, her smile rueful. “Just b-b-being able to let it out helps. C-can we get an egg cream?”

“Yep.”

But what had sounded so good on the drive over didn’t sit well once she’d sipped it, and Charlotte scurried off to the ladies’ room to throw up as quietly as she could. After flushing and rinsing out her mouth at the sink, she looked at her reflection in the mirror of the diner restroom. “Sei incinta,” she reminded herself with a wry laugh.

Back at the booth ‘Noria looked concerned. “You o-o-okay?”

“Yes,” Charlotte told her. “So tell me about the neighbor. What’s his name?”

Honoria blushed and toyed with the straw of her drink. “Ethan. E-Ethan Merrick. He’s g-g-got a Golden Retriever n-named Butterscotch and w-walks her every day at f-four.”

With a little more prodding Charlotte found out Ethan was majoring in architecture at MIT, wore glasses, and read poetry. On the whole it sounded like a sweet crush and she made sure not to tease Honoria about it too much. By the time they drove back to Myrtle Street both of them were in a good mood.

“Th-thanks,” Honoria called to her as she climbed out of the car. “You’re the b-best!”

Charlotte blew her a kiss and then headed off towards Boston General, feeling better. She’d gotten extremely fond of her young sister-in-law, and knew the girl was feeling a lot of pressure at this point as the debate over whether to go to college next year or not loomed on the horizon.

Pamela was against it, confessing to Charlotte that it was mostly because of Honoria’s speech impediment. “I would rather _die_ before I’d let her face the sort of bullying that will happen,” Pamela had admitted. “The world is neither kind nor patient and although Honoria thinks she knows that, she’s not ready for the harsh reality out there.”

Win tended to agree with Pamela, although he’d pointed out that a compromise of a few classes instead of a full load might work well. And Charles . . . Charles wanted Honoria to take the chance. 

“She’s strong and she knows herself,” he’d told Charlotte. “I’d protect her to the death, but I don’t want her to have any regrets either, Beloved. Honoria deserves the opportunity to go to the New England Conservatory if she wants to. I won’t hold her back.”

Charlotte tended to agree with him. The Conservatory was close enough to Beacon Hill for Honoria to live at home, and still far enough for her to begin her own life. However matters were as yet undecided and the growing tension was beginning to make itself felt in both Winchester households.

She parked and walked in the hospital, going past the admissions desk to the OBGYN wing, looking for Doctor Colman’s office, and fighting a little frisson of excitement. Charles had already told her the wonderful news so this would be a confirmation and preliminary physical. Charlotte smiled.

However ten minutes after meeting Aubrey Colman, she stopped. Something about him bothered her, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. He was a little condescending, true, but Charlotte had worked with plenty of doctors who were. He was also a little overly-familiar, patting her hand or shoulder, moving in close as he pressed his stethoscope against her spine and then under her breast.

“Well Mrs. Winchester you seem to be in fine shape,” he told her, blinking. “ _Lovely_ bone structure for one so dainty and petite.”

“Um, thank you,” she managed, trying to be polite. He spent a few lingering moments checking her eyes and tongue, his hands cupping her jaw and rubbing it.

“Your husband seemed very pleased about this pregnancy when he came to see me. I understand _why_ now.”

Charlotte blinked, not sure what to make of it, but a knock on the exam room broke into the moment, and Doctor Colman stepped back to answer it. A fluffy-haired woman in a lab coat stood there, papers in her hand. “Sorry to interrupt, Doctor Colman, but Mrs. Cabot’s asking for you up in the labor room and she won’t take no for an answer.”

“Ah,” Doctor Colman gave Charlotte a theatrical sigh. “I’m afraid this won’t take but a moment, dear. I’ll be right back.” He headed out, leaving Charlotte and the woman behind in the exam room. Once he was gone, the woman quickly looked over her shoulder and then held out a hand to Charlotte, who shook it.

“Doctor Wilhelmina Mayfair. I won’t get a chance to say this again and if you report it I’m quite likely to be fired, but for the love of God, _don’t_ let that man be your attending for your pregnancy, Mrs. Winchester.”

Stunned, Charlotte stared at her for three seconds before slowly murmuring, “So . . . it’s _not_ just me.”

Doctor Mayfair gave a small humorless smile. “No.”

“He’s . . . creepy.”

“Yes.” This came out quickly and quietly. “I saw on your paperwork that you’re a nurse, so I think you'll understand the implications here. Doctor Colman came to us from New York, and was in Philadelphia before that, at each of those hospitals for _less_ than three years.”

Charlotte did understand, feeling another sort of shiver run down her spine; the sort of sensation when you swerved out of danger at the last minute. She gave a little nod. “Thank you.”

Doctor Mayfield nodded back. “You’re welcome. If you need a replacement I’d suggest Doctor Klein or Costello in the meantime.”

Charlotte felt better, and managed to dredge up a smile. “What about you?”

The woman looked surprised, her thin features brightening. “Ah, yes, I could do it too . . . if you don’t mind a bit of non-conformist handling your pregnancy.”

“Depends on the definition,” Charlotte admitted, “but if it keeps me away from _him_ , I’m sold.”

By the time Doctor Colman returned, Charlotte had already finished up the intake paperwork and made her next appointment with Doctor Mayfair. 

“I’m sorry but she seems to handle my constant vomiting so well,” Charlotte lied sweetly, dabbing at her lips with her handkerchief. “It’s terrible really; Twice in your office, and I’ve ruined three pairs of my husband’s shoes already. I can’t tell you how _awful_ it is to bring up half-digested seafood . . .”

Doctor Colman looked a little green himself at that and made sympathetic noises. “Yes well then it’s for the better I suppose, although . . .” he leaned in again, far too close for Charlotte’s comfort, “I’d suggest you take anything she says with a grain of salt. Doctor Mayfield’s a bit of a character. Has some strange ideas about childbirth.”

“Oh?” Charlotte asked, but Doctor Colman merely smiled and escorted her out, his arm around her shoulders just a little too tight


	4. Chapter 4

Charles finished the last of the spaghetti on his plate, but even the satisfaction of his wife’s cooking couldn’t quite quell a thread of inner irritation. He blotted his lips with his napkin, glancing across the table at her. “Superlative as always, Beloved.”

“Grazie,” she dimpled back, and began to clear off the table. Charles watched her do it, his gaze taking in her figure with both personal and professional interest. The pregnancy wasn’t showing yet, but he still felt a surge of quiet delight in her other curves.

“You’re too quiet,” Charlotte accused over the sink-full of suds. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s simply that I don’t understand why you opted for Mayfair over Colman,” he confessed, the irritation surging again. “You are the wife of the chief of thoracic surgery and entitled to the best professional Boston General has. That means being attended by the head of the Obstetrics department, not just . . . one of the staff there.”

“I didn’t feel comfortable with Doctor Colman,” Charlotte replied patiently. “And Doctor Mayfair is well-qualified, Charles. She really is.”

“I’ve heard comments about _her_ ,” Charles muttered. “Spent a lot of time in Russia and Paris, apparently. Picked up some odd ideas about psychoprophylactic birth techniques and who knows what else.”

“Innovation can be good,” Charlotte countered a little defensively. “Think of all the new techniques _you_ picked up in Korea.”

He waved a dismissing hand. “Those came about out of trial and error compounded by necessity; birth has an established routine, particularly at Boston General. Frankly I just think it’s a little insulting to pass over the department head, Charlotte, particularly when I went out of my way to set up the appointment with him.”

As he watched, Charlotte slammed her hands on the rim of the sink and took a deep breath. She turned to him, her gaze sharp. “All right, maybe _this_ will make it a little clearer. We’re going to play pretend here for a moment, mio Orso. You are going to be _me_ , newly pregnant and slightly vulnerable, all right? Can you put yourself in my shoes?”

“What?” Charles blinked at her, startled by her flare of hostility. Charlotte wiped her hands on the dishtowel on the counter and came over to him, holding his gaze with her.

“And _I’ll_ be Aubrey Colman, the doctor meeting me for the first time.”

She glided over with a bright false smile, resting her still damp hands on his shoulders, squeezing them slightly. “Ooooh Mrs. Winchester, how nice to meet you.” Charlotte leaned in until her breath brushed his face. “You’re quite pretty. Now I’m going to have you breathe deeply . . .” 

Charles felt Charlotte slide her hand up his chest, pressing lingeringly caressing his left pectoral muscle. “Charlotte,” he protested, thrown off-balance by the grope, particularly since she was still hovering very closely to him.

“Shhh, yes, good strong heartbeat. Your husband seemed very pleased about this pregnancy and I can see _why_ ,” Charlotte breathed, her tone slightly lascivious. “You’re so dainty and petite. Let’s see about those lymph nodes . . .” She shifted back to stand in front of him, leaning in closely and cupped his face. “When was your last pelvic exam, dear? Do we have time to get you on my table today for a good checkup?” 

Charlotte continued, caressing his jawline with her thumbs, her face fractionally from his, her gaze bright and predatory. “Oh your husband really is a lucky man.”

Charles stared at her for a deeply uncomfortable moment before whispering, “Oh.”

Charlotte dropped her hands and pulled back her expression bitter. “Yes. And _that’s_ the problem, Charles. It was _that_ uncomfortable. Nothing overt it’s just . . . he just seemed a lit-tle too happy to keep touching me.”

Disbelief gave way to anger. “That’s . . . completely unprofessional!”

“Yes,” Charlotte admitted. “But it’s also just on the borderline. After all, he’s the head of the department and a professional. If his hand stays on my breast a little too long, well he’s checking my heartbeat, and all those things he said? Clearly I just misinterpreted them because I’m pregnant and emotional.”

“Atrocious!” Charles felt himself begin to growl. “He cannot be _allowed_ to get away with behavior like that, particularly with YOU!”

Charlotte reached out and lightly rested her arm around his shoulders, giving him a gentle hug. “He won’t because I’m not seeing him, Charles darling. Maybe I AM being difficult, but I don’t want to go through this pregnancy with someone who makes me so ill at ease.”

Charles pulled her into his lap and held her tightly, tamping down his anger even as he comforted her with light kisses along her hairline. “Point well made. Good lord, had I _known_ the man was a lecherous cad I never would have made the appointment. Aside from what he did to you, this is distressing on a professional level as well.”

Charlotte burrowed against him. “Mayfair warned me away from him, if you need another reason to support my choosing her. I’d be curious to know if anyone else at the hospital feels the same way about Colman.”

“I intend to find out,” he assured her, his tone hard. 

She looked up at him, slightly alarmed. “Chaaaarles,” Charlotte warned him gently, “Be prudent, please. Yes Aubrey Colman is . . . creepy, but I don’t want you to jeopardize your position over this! You’re just getting established.”

He drew in a deep breath. “I want to be calm and fair but it’s damned difficult, knowing what he’s said and done to you in the course of a single visit, Charlotte my love. The very thought is revolting and a horrendous abuse of his position. How many others has he toyed with, and possibly molested?”

“Mayfair mentioned,” Charlotte murmured thoughtfully. “That he’d been in New York and Philadelphia prior to this, less than three years at each place.”

Charles locked gazes with his wife, both of them aware of what those short stints hinted at in the scheme of hospital staffing. “Perhaps a few letters of inquiry would be the more discreet way of building a case,” he mused, still disgruntled.

“Perhaps,” Charlotte agreed, her tone lightening. “But that’s for tomorrow. In the meantime, I have parfait for dessert.”

Charles gave her an indulgently suspicious look, smiling crookedly. “You only make that particular delight when you want to ask me a favor,” he reminded her. “What is it _this_ time?”

She laughed, swooping in for a kiss. “Put away the dishes, come join me in the living room and you’ll find out.”

‘It’ turned out to be a crate that held a brand-new stereo cabinet complete with a built-in record player and high fidelity speakers. Charles looked at it and back to Charlotte, who laughed delightedly as she told him, “My first commission came through and I thought I’d splurge a little.”

He shot her a tender look. “You shouldn’t have,” he murmured, feeling a sense of delight and love as he used the crowbar to pry off the top of the crate.

“I wanted to,” she replied, pulling some of the excelsior out and throwing it at him. “Now we can fill the house with all sorts of music and make sure the baby gets only the best influences. Mozart, Chopin, Verde, Joplin . . .”

“Rachmaninoff, Mahler, Rimsky-Korsakov—”

“Goodman, Krupa, Davis,” Charlotte countered, and Charles gave a deep sigh, setting the crowbar down.

“This is about Honoria and her current musical infatuations,” he murmured. “You’re trying to _bribe_ me, Charlotte Lucia Winchester.”

To her credit she didn’t deny it, and came over, rubbing her nose with his. “Is it working?”

Charles glanced down at the partially uncovered cabinet, with its sleek wood peeking through the clumps of wood shavings. The thought of rich symphonies flowing through the house in majestic strains while he read in the study made him smile. “Possibly. Alas, I suppose _every_ teenager goes through a period of questionable choices and tastes.”

“What were yours?” Charlotte wanted to know, brushing her cheek against his and making it hard to think.

“The Ritz brothers, and plus fours,” Charles admitted with a sheepish grin as Charlotte laughed.


	5. Chapter 5

_April, 1954_

Sunday dinner was an unbreakable Winchester family tradition.

The first time she and Charles had attended, Charlotte had been intimidated by it, feeling small and overwhelmed by the fine china and formal settings of Pamela’s table. She had spoken only when spoken to, and although the food had been very good, manners and etiquette had left Charlotte anxious until the moment when Win had spilled the gravy boat on his cardigan and let fly a string of curses involving incestuous sons and their canine mothers, the foul language rolling out in his oh-so-proper Brahmin accent.

Pamela had chided him, although she had smirked, and Honoria had spluttered into giggles. Even Charles had hidden his grin as his father had sighed.

“I beg your pardon all, and to you in _particular_ Charlotte my dear. My temper does fly at times, particularly when vexed by misfortune.”

“Or k-k-klutziness,” Honoria had chortled as she rose to help wipe his sweater. “It’s o-okay.”

“Yes,” Pamela had agreed. “It looks rather _good_ on you darling. You’ve _always_ been able to wear browns better than the rest of us.”

As Charlotte had watched, Win had shot his wife a glare that slowly shifted into a wry smile. “So shall we tell her about the time you made a cooked goose fly again, Pamela?”

Her mother-in-law had gone pink, caught between embarrassment and amusement. “The platter was slippery! How was _I_ to know that a simple jab would send the entire bird sliding across the table like a skater on a pond!”

And with that, the ice had been broken. They’d finished the meal with funny stories of other mishaps and Charlotte had enjoyed it hugely. 

Ever since then she and Charles had hosted the Sunday dinner on alternate weeks, and Charlotte had introduced the Winchesters to the delights of ravioli, veal Parmesan and risotto with lamb amid other more familiar dishes like beef stew or steak. It was a more relaxed meal in general here and she looked forward to it as one of the nicer parts of the month.

This one in particular, since she and Charles would be making their announcement.

The housekeeper Mrs. Jackson had done the shopping on Friday before leaving for the weekend, leaving Charlotte to cook the roast and baked potatoes, humming to herself happily despite the heavy spring rain and dark skies outside. She heard Charles in the dining room setting the table and called to him. “Can we have a fire in the fireplace too?”

“Already started,” he called back. “Where are the napkins?”

“Top drawer of the lowboy next to the coasters. I hope they get here soon.”

As the words left her lips the doorbell chimed and Charlotte heard Charles go to answer it, ushering in his drenched family into the front hallway. 

After a few minutes, Honoria bounced into the kitchen scooping up one of the hand towels and patting her hair dry as she grinned.“P-parallel p-p-parked on the first t-try!” she crowed. “Ohh, everything s-smells great!”

Charlotte smiled. “That’s my girl! Grab the rolls, would you please and go set them on the table?”

The roast was as close to perfect as she could get it, and as they ate Charlotte enjoyed the conversation, which touched on Honoria’s upcoming harp recital, Win’s work with Harvard’s alumni association, and Pamela’s ongoing feud with Esther Osgood, her co-chair of the New England Wild Flower Preservation Society.

“She’s so full of herself it’s amazing she fits into her dresses,” Pamela sniffed. “Trying to tell me that Queen Anne’s Lace is a weed and that Hoary Allyssum should be re-named because it sounds obscene! I’ll obscene her!”

“Temper, Pamela,” Win murmured, his voice light. “It’s not worth a duel at dawn, my dear.”

A flash of lightning glowed through the windows, followed by a boom of thunder that made the dishes rattle. Pamela gave her husband a smug look. “It sounds as if the Almighty is taking _my_ side on this.”

Everyone laughed and Win gave a helpless look of agreement, his eyes twinkling.

“That was close,” Charlotte observed, and looked up the table at Charles, who caught her gaze and nodded; it was time. He cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention, and she loved how he blushed.

“Charlotte and I have an announcement to make,” He began earnestly, only to have dining room plunged into darkness at that precise moment.

For a second everyone sat in the dark, and then Honoria began to giggle. “Th-that th-the power’s out?” she spluttered.

“Very funny,” her brother retorted, and Charlotte had to fight a few giggles herself. She rose and headed for the lowboy, fishing out the matches and moving to light the candles there before shifting one of the candelabra to the table.

“We’re expecting a baby,” she told everyone, smiling at Charles.

Immediately Honoria and Pamela cheered, and Win gave a nod of pleased approval.

“Wh-when?” Honoria wanted to know, eyes bright.

“Mid-October,” Charles said, pushing aside his plate.

“How wonderful!” Pamela sighed happily. “Oh if only you’d told us earlier, we’d have brought something to toast this occasion! But we’ll have time to shop for adorable Christmas gifts! Oh! So that explains . . .” she arched an eyebrow at Charlotte, who nodded back at the memory of the trip to the cemetery.

“Yes. We didn’t want to tell anyone until we were sure ourselves,” she replied, picking up plates and stacking them. “I’ve yet to telephone my father and let him know.”

“Wow,” Honoria burbled. “A b-baby! So if it’s d-due in October, that means it w-w-was conceived—”

“Honoria!” her mother chided firmly. “That’s _hardly_ a subject to discuss, much less at the dinner table!”

“S-s-s-sorry!” came her meek reply. “I d-didn’t mean to e-e-embarrass you, Char.”

“It’s all right,” she replied gently. “I’m not offended. Part of my rotation through pediatrics dealt with figuring out conception dates. Looking back I realized I myself was conceived at the end of Lent, so it wasn’t hard to figure out what my parents had given up for forty days.”

As she had hoped, everyone chuckled at that, even Pamela, who nevertheless changed the subject when the moment of levity had passed. 

“Baby clothes,” she listed. “A cradle or bassinette; a changing table, linens, layettes, a christening gown . . . oh there’s a lot to be done, Charlotte dear! Who’s your attending? Charles, I insist on the best obstetrician at Boston for my future grandchild! The best, you hear me?”

“Mother,” Charles sighed. “Let’s . . . take this into the living room, shall we? The fire is already going there and we can talk matters through. Charlotte, let me help you clear the table.”

She could hear the agitated tone in his voice and when they were alone in the kitchen, Charles began to rinse the plates mostly by feel, grumbling. “Good Lord, our child isn’t even _here_ yet and my mother is already bossing everyone around.”

“She’s excited,” Charlotte reminded him gently. “Just the way we were when we found out, Charles. Give her a moment to be happy, all right? This is a big change for all of us.”

He sighed and leaned over to kiss her temple before returning to the dishes, handling them well even in the semi-darkness. “I know, Beloved. I just have visions of our home inundated with thousands of baby clothes and teddy bears.”

“A grandmother’s prerogative,” Charlotte pointed out.

“True,” he admitted. “Better zeal than indifference. How do you feel?”

“Happy,” Charlotte assured him. “Proud. A little anxious but that’s part and parcel of the whole deal. Done?”

“For the moment,” Charles turned from the sink and dried his hands. “Do you have the champagne?”

Charlotte handed him a bottle. “Hope you can figure out how to open it by firelight.”

“We Winchesters _rise_ to the challenges of life,” came his reply as he followed her from the kitchen to the living room.

Later, after the family had left and the storm had abated to a steady rain, Charlotte curled up with Charles on the sofa, both of them cozy and content. She undid the first few buttons of his shirt and slipped a hand under it, lightly rubbing the thick curls on his chest. “How are you feeling?”

“Proud, concerned, and delightfully distracted,” came his confession. “Mentally brushing up on my fundamentals of obstetrics and wondering if it’s at all _normal_ to be feeling amorous at the thought of you carrying my child.”

“Mmmm,” Charlotte sighed. “Well I think we ought to go upstairs and take senseless advantage of each other, Orso mio, and make sure I’m pregnant. What do you say to that?”

He looked at her in the firelight, his expression as vulnerable and sweet as it had been the first time they’d made love. “You constantly astonish me with your capacity for love, Charlotte. I’m not sure what I did to deserve you; I’m not sure I _do_ deserve you but I will _always_ love you.”

Charlotte lifted her face to kiss him, lightly at first and then with more passion.

They never did make it upstairs that night.


	6. Chapter 6

_June 1954_

The department head meeting was running long and Charles felt his irritation simmering even as he fought to keep an impassive expression. He and Charlotte were due to meet Honoria down at the harbor to sail the _Salem Breeze_ up to the yacht club near Marblehead for a relaxing week of vacation. A vacation that might never start if the current dean of medicine, Malcolm Cabot, didn’t stop yammering _on_ , Charles thought in irritation. He checked his watch and fought a sigh.

“Plans?” came a whisper. Charles looked over and realized he was sitting next to Aubrey Colman. The gynecologist looked annoyingly professional in his pressed lab coat and Andover tie as he shot Charles a sidelong glance.

“Yes,” Charles reluctantly admitted, not wanting to say more to the man. Ever since he and Charlotte had chosen Mayfair, Colman had been trying hard to re-ingratiate himself without any subtlety. 

“Good, good. So your wife is what-- about five months along now? Little belly as round as a _peach_ , I’ll bet.”

Charles tried to ignore him but the comparison was accurate: Charlotte indeed was now delightfully chubby, and practically glowed with good health. “She’s well,” was all he offered up to Colman.

“Excellent,” came the whispered reply. “These are the _sweet_ months, you know. Best to take _advantage_ of them.”

When Charles turned to look at him, Colman gave a knowing nod and a small smile.

Charles felt a surge of disgust rise within him. “Tell me, do you hear much from your colleagues at Astoria General anymore?” he murmured.

For a moment Colman looked startled, and then his expression shifted to forced good humor. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow?”

“Ran into a colleague of mine who’s working there and we talked a bit. Mentioned you in fact,” Charles lied blithely, aware that the meeting was finally ending as people rose around them, shuffling papers and picking up files. He moved to stand.

Colman cocked his head and smiled again perfunctorily. “Ah well, you know how it is when people work their way up, professionally. There are always those who are jealous.”

Charles made a little noise; neither agreement nor disagreement. Taking it as the former, Colman added, “Still, we all move on. Enjoy your plans with your pretty wife, Doctor Winchester.”

The whole exchange left a bitter taste in Charles’ mouth, and he lingered until most of the doctors had left before cornering the tall and gaunt Malcolm Cabot on the way out.

“Doctor Cabot, if you have a moment,” Charles called to him. The elderly doctor looked over and gave a puzzled nod, moving closer as he hefted his briefcase. The three remaining doctors wandered out, leaving the two of them in the board room.

“Yes, Winchester?”

“I was just wondering . . . professional interest . . . exactly how long has Doctor Colman been here?”

Doctor Cabot considered the question. “Eighteen months or so I believe. Before your time of course. Jack Howard headed up the department right until the poor fellow dropped dead in the steam bath of his club. Fifty-three, bad heart. Naturally there was a scramble to fill the slot but promoting from within would have been too hasty and poor form to boot, so we advertised. Why?”

“Just curious,” Charles replied. “I couldn’t place his accent. New York?”

“I believe so,” Doctor Cabot mused, his gaze sharp. “Is that all, Doctor Winchester, or is there something . . . . more?”

For a moment Charles was reminded of Colonel Potter—Doctor Cabot had the same unflinching gaze of intelligence and concern. Taking a leap of faith, Charles lowered his voice and spoke again.

“My wife tells me from first-hand experience that Colman was a little overly familiar with her, and I wondered if there was anything _to_ it.”

Cabot didn’t speak up right away, which was telling in itself; when he did, he sighed. “I can’t talk to you about this; it’s a personnel matter and as such confidential, Winchester. Off the record, I’m aware of certain . . . allegations in the past but they’re old hearsay and as such cannot be considered reliable. Rumors, stories---no _proof_.”

Charles sighed as well, perfectly aware that little could be done on the basis of mere gossip. “I understand.”

“I hope you do,” Cabot replied distantly. “I won’t have the reputation of this hospital besmirched. At the same time, care and . . . vigilance will help us all for the moment. Is your wife still seeing him?”

“No,” Charles admitted in a guarded tone. “We’ve chosen Mayfield as our attending.”

“Good,” Cabot nodded emphatically. “She’s very professional, very keen on the latest developments in the field. So you won’t even have to cross paths with Colman, then. Works out for everyone.”

Charles could only agree, and walked out of the hospital feeling unsettled. Clearly Cabot was aware of the situation and yet was to deal with Colman. The entire situation didn’t sit right with Charles. Bad medicine was one thing, but using one’s professional status to harass patients-particularly with female patients--was untenable. At the moment however, he couldn’t think of any way to curb the doctor outside of firing him which was beyond Charles’ capacity to do. And now wasn’t the time to make waves, not with his own position still relatively new.

The frustration distracted him enough that he almost didn’t hear his name being called but finally looked up as Nurse Sheridan came hurrying over, a piece of paper in her hand. 

“Doctor Winchester!” she puffed, pleased to have caught up to him. “Message from your sister. She says can you please bring some chocolate and hard boiled eggs with you.” The nurse grinned. “That’s quite a combination.”

“My wife’s cravings,” Charles admitted with a small bemused smile as he took the note. “The horror is that she’ll eat them together. Thank you,” he added.

\--oo00oo--

The harbor was busy but Charles—now in khakis and a polo shirt-- managed to find parking and hefted the knapsack on one shoulder as he looked for the right berth. He’d kept his olive cap from Korea and slipped it on, feeling a moment of nostalgia. By the time he’d reached the Salem Breeze, Honoria was there to greet him and take the knapsack. She wore green clam diggers and a long-sleeved pink sweater along with her sneakers and looked completely at ease on the deck.

“Ahoy,” Charles teased her. “Permission to board?”

“G-g-granted,” Honoria grinned back. “As long as y-y-you brought the chocolate.”

“I did,” Charles assured her, having raided the stash of Ghirardelli from the cupboards on Acorn Street. “Where’s Charlotte?”

“Below, s-s-stowing provisions.”

Charles stepped down into the yacht and gave himself a moment to adjust to the rocking before he moved further in, feeling a sense of joy. The _Salem Breeze_ was a well-built minor yacht; thirty-three feet, sturdy yet quick with her Bermuda rig. His father had bought it during the Depression and had taken the family sailing often when he and Honoria were children, consequently Charles knew every inch of the vessel well.

He headed below to the berth to find Charlotte tucking away a bag of knitting and he lingered on the stairwell to drink in the sight of her. She had on blue culottes and a sleeveless white blouse decorated with little anchors and captains wheels on it, which Charles found to be ridiculously cute. He squatted to give her a hug. “Doing all right?”

“Pffft, yes,” she assured him. “Did you bring--?”

He held out the knapsack and watched her burrow through it like a little sea-going squirrel, fishing out the foil-wrapped dish of eggs and thick bar of chocolate with a happy sigh.

“It’s a testament to my great love for you that I’m not flinching at your dietary choices,” Charles pointed out as she began to peel one of the eggs. “The need for protein I understand, but chocolate?”

Charlotte gave an elegant shrug. “I don’t get it either but it’s what the bambino wants at the moment. Ready to go?”

“I believe we are.” Stepping back up on deck, he and Honoria cast off, and she settled at the stern, hands on the rudder as Charles managed the mainsail, holding the boom steady as the Salem Breeze moved out of the harbor. It was bright but cool, and the yacht seemed to glide over the water. Charlotte came up and settled in on one of the shelf seats near Honoria.

“How long will it take?” she asked, pushing up her sunglasses.   
Charles looked to Honoria, who shrugged. “If w-we get a good breeze, th-th-three and a half hours,” she estimated. “If n-not then about f-f-five.”

“Either is fine with me,” Charlotte announced, “sail away!”

The breeze picked up after they rounded Deer Island, and Charlotte came to stand by Charles as he angled the boom to fill the sail with the easy grace of long practice. “So why didn’t you join the navy?” she teased.

“They didn’t need as many surgeons, and certainly not specialists,” he pointed out. “Not feeling seasick?”

“I feel fine,” she assured him, slipping an arm around his waist. “You’ve been doing this a while.”

“Years,” Charles nodded. “When Pierce used to prattle on about his precious Crabapple Cove I always thought it would be such a coup to come sailing in to that tiny harbor and remind him he wasn’t the only one missing the sea.”

“Admit it; you’d want to show up his dinghy,” Charlotte snickered.

“I’m not even going to _discuss_ Pierce’s dinghy,” he snorted. “And I’m still tempted to sail to Maine, but I wouldn’t dare expose Honoria to that . . . scoundrel.”

But Charles grinned as he said it, and Charlotte laughed aloud, her curls bouncing in the breeze.


	7. Chapter 7

Everything was going well until dinner.

Charlotte thought the Boston Yacht Club was breathtaking with its pennant draped wraparound porch and luxurious main floor. She and Charles had Room Number 6 and Honoria had Number 5; both rooms overlooked the water of course, but Charlotte was too stunned at the beautiful décor to realize it at first.

A polished pine beam ceiling arched over a cozy room decorated with a nautical theme of red, white, and blue, and fresh flowers graced the coffee table. Even the bed was impressive, and she realized it had one of those new king-sized mattresses she’d read about.

“Do you need a nap?” Charles asked, setting the suitcase down. “I know it’s just past lunchtime but if you need rest . . .”

“That sounds good, actually,” Charlotte admitted as she kicked off her espadrilles and wiggled her bare toes. “Not a long one, but a little lie-down would help. What about you?”

“Honoria and I can entertain ourselves for a few hours,” Charles assured her. “I’ve got membership paperwork to deal with, and I’m sure she’ll be catching up with a few old friends here in Marblehead.” He came over and slid his arms around her, the bump of the baby pressed between them. “It’s a vacation and the best part of that is rest.”

“Fair enough,” She agreed. “Just don’t let me sleep past three, please. What time is dinner?”

“Supper is at six,” Charles murmured. “We’ll have to dress for that, alas, but the food is good and you’ll enjoy the view I’m sure. Is there anything else you need?”

She kissed him. “I’m well.”

Charlotte stretched out on the soft bed, curling to one side as Charles slipped out, and fell asleep quickly, giving in to the peace of the room. It was a deep sleep, full of quirky little dreams that made no sense; Charlotte found herself giggling when she woke up nearly ninety minutes later.

“You,” she announced to her rounded belly, “have a strange sense of humor, baby-do. I think it’s all that chocolate and egg.”

Pregnancy agreed with her, Charlotte had come to realize. After the initial morning sickness had passed, she had no trouble with any of the rest of it, and part of that was due to Mina Mayfair’s calm support.

Mina treated her as a peer as much as a patient, and explained some of her own practices for childbirth; breathing exercises was one of them.

“In so many parts of the world obstetric pain relief is non-existent,” Mina had pointed out, “and yet women there give birth without undue complications because they learn to focus on their breathing and use it to help guide their labor. I’ve seen it used effectively and I firmly believe it’s better practice for mother and child in the long run.”

And Charlotte agreed to do them, mostly because they did give her a sense of calm at times, and because it seemed a sound practice. Charles wasn’t as sold on the idea but he admitted privately that childbirth was out of his realm of expertise and that since Charlotte was doing all the work, he’d leave matters to her. 

She appreciated that, and him. It was strange to see him so gentle when he caressed her rounded stomach with his large hands, and watch him speak to it in a calm, affectionate way.

“Be good to your mother,” he would gently chide the bump whenever the baby began kicking. “She’s not a trampoline.”

Privately Charlotte felt like one some mornings, but the baby’s energy was reassuring too, and she appreciated that even if it was a little exasperating at times.

She rose from the bed and tottered over to the full-length mirror, impishly aware that it could be angled to face the bed even as she checked her face. Charlotte giggled to herself and shifted the mirror even as she moved to touch up her lipstick. “Yes, I am being naughty,” she murmured to her reflection. “But it’s a vacation and we deserve it.”

*** *** ***

The dining room of the Yacht Club was elegant and nearly full; Charlotte looked around anxiously as Charles patted her arm. “We do have a reservation,” he assured her.

He looked every inch the blue blood he was with his dark blazer and ascot, while Honoria carried off coltish charm with her pleated skirt and pale angora sweater. In comparison Charlotte felt bulky in her pink linen sundress even though it was tailored to accommodate her belly. She lifted her chin and tried to fit in, hoping she would. 

A short dark-haired man sailed over, smiling. “Doctor Winchester, how lovely to see you again! Miss Winchester, and this is . . . ?”

“Mrs. Winchester,” Charles replied with pride. “My bride.”

Charlotte felt herself blush, but the maître’d smiled.

“Congratulations to you both,” he murmured warmly, his gaze bright. “Let me show you to your table.”

He led the way through the room and Charlotte followed him, aware of a few stares but Charles’ hand on the small of her back was comforting. When they reached the table overlooking the bay, the maître‘d held a chair out for her. “Madam?”

Charles held a chair for Honoria, who plunked herself into it with little grace. “Th-thanks.”

“My pleasure,” Charles told her with a roll of his eyes. “I take it you found Harriet and Tucker?”

“At the n-new one club. The Dolphin. Harriet’s w-w-wearing her hair in a Beehive now. Looks s-stupid,” Honoria muttered. “Like a bl-bleached souffle.”

Charlotte, who was sipping water, laughed, and coughed part of it up, spluttering. She wiped her face with her napkin as Charles snickered but looking over his shoulder caught a disapproving glare from another guest. She blushed and looked away.

“S-sorry Char,” Honoria sighed. “T-Tucker’s still okay but his s-sister is officially b-boy crazy now.”

“It’s a phase that happens, or so I hear,” Charlotte commiserated. “I never went through it though.” 

“No?” Charles teased and probably would have done more but the waiter appeared and looked around the table expectantly.

“Good evening,” he politely nodded. “How may I serve you?”

They had the lobster thermidor of course, and chilled white wine along with some of the best summer greens Charlotte had ever eaten, served up on glittering bone china. Through the course of the meal she dropped a fork, and accidentally took a sip from Charles’ water glass at one point, both of which earned her further glares from the frosty matron behind her husband. Every time Charlotte caught her eye, the woman shot her a disapproving glance and it soured the meal for her slightly.

Honoria noticed and leaned forward, her voice low. “G-geez, what’s _her_ problem?”

“No idea,” Charlotte admitted. Charles caught the exchange and leaned forward himself.

“Who’s problem?”

“Old b-biddy behind you,” Honoria told him. “Keeps g-giving Charlotte the st-stink-eye.”

Casually Charles shifted in his seat, made a quick sidelong glance and leaned back into the conversation, his expression sour.

“Jane Winslow, one of the perennial thorns in mother’s side,” he sighed. “Apparently her opinions were set in concrete just after the Civil War.”

That made both Honoria and Charlotte laugh again, bringing yet another glare over Charles’ shoulder. Charlotte tried to hide her mirth, but when the woman stood up, she felt a prickle of panic.

The woman made her way to their table and looked down at them, her expression one of frosty disgust. “Winchester isn’t it? My, how _very_ disappointing. Harold and I were trying to have a quiet, civilized meal here but the constant disruptions and poor display of manners has been an ordeal for us both. Young lady,” this was to Charlotte, “If you cannot keep a hold of your silverware or remember which water glass is yours, I suggest you take your meals in your room, which considering your condition is preferable to those of us who do not need to witness it. As a long-standing member of this club I feel it’s of the utmost importance to keep standards high, and regrettably, that doesn’t seem to be the case here.”

“Y-you can’t talk to us th-that way!” Honoria hissed, her cheeks red as other diners began to take notice. “W-we’re members too!”

“I can and I shall,” Mrs. Winslow replied crisply. “Poor table manners aside, it’s the duty of every member of this club to observe the values we cherish and as a member of the Mayflower Society it’s an added distress to see social and ethnic _inferiors_ admitted here.” She gave a smug little purse of her lips at Charlotte. 

Charles shot to his feet, but Charlotte gripped his wrist to keep him from lashing out of the older woman. Charlotte rose up, slowly, and locked gazes with Jane Winslow.

“Mayflower Society. So your ancestors came here in sixteen twenty,” she murmured.

Jane Winslow’s brittle smile widened. “Over three hundred years ago . . . _dearie._ That puts me in the right.” 

“Well my maiden name is Colombe, and my ancestor _discovered_ this continent in 1492, so at over four hundred and fifty years, I think this pissing contest is _done_ , Mrs. Winslow,” Charlotte told her sweetly through gritted teeth. “Thank you.”

Jane Winslow looked as if she’d been slapped, and when several people began to applaud, she pursed her mouth so tightly it looked as if a drawstring had closed it. She motioned to her husband and they stiffly left the dining room as Charlotte watched them go, her temples throbbing.

“Oh dear _God_ I love you,” Charles murmured, sliding an arm around her. “That was magnificent!”

Waiters began soothing the other patrons, and the Maître’d glided over looking from Charles to Charlotte with concern. “I’m so sorry for that, Mrs. Winchester. We have had ongoing . . . difficulties with Mrs. Winslow and I suspect the board members will want to talk to you in the morning about this incident but rest assured we here at the club value your patronage. And from me to you, _si, che era magnifico_ ,” he added in a lower voice with a small smile.

Honoria sniffled. “What a h-horrible old woman. Ch-Charles, can we get out of h-here?”

They took the elevator up, and Charlotte hugged Honoria as they did so. “It’s okay, ‘Noria. She’s just a bigot and a bully. You and I know _all_ about those.”

“She’s a vile crone with no right to disrupt our meal that way,” Charles fumed. “I’ll petition to have her thrown out of the club, Mayflower Society or not!”

“It’s not worth it,” Charlotte sighed. “There are always going to be people who think the way she does, and she didn’t win this round.”

“N-N-No, but she’s still a b-bitch,” Honoria snuffled, glaring at her brother to stop his chide about her cursing.

“Agreed,” Charles admitted. The elevator stopped and they got out, walking Honoria to her door and bidding her good-night before turning into their own suite.

“Charlotte,” Charles began, but she rose up on tiptoe to silence him with a kiss.

“No. I’ve gotten a little stronger about standing my ground,” she told him. “Thanks to you. I’m not afraid of not being good enough, because when you look at me, I know I _am_.”

He gathered her into his arms and Charlotte relaxed in his deep hug.

“I’m still considering the petition; it’s the only way to stop Mother from driving up and demanding Jane’s head on a platter.”

“Let’s just take tomorrow as it comes,” Charlotte told him. “Right now I want to sleep with you and finish digesting this dinner, if the baby lets me.”

He laughed.


	8. Chapter 8

_Late August, 1954_

Charles finished the last closing stitch, giving a little inner sigh of relief, pleased that the surgery was finally done. The aneurysm had been tricky to reach, but Mr. Hargreaves would be recovering nicely barring any further issues at this point. Charles gave a nod to his team and thanked them before heading to wash up, feeling pleased with life in general.

Things were going well. Two months earlier, the yacht club’s social committee had reviewed the dining room incident and quietly moved the Winslows from regular membership to auxiliary membership by unanimous agreement, which Charles found _enormously_ satisfying.

At seven months now, Charlotte’s pregnancy was progressing well, and despite her frustration at becoming rounder, (“I’m practically a beach ball with legs!”) she was healthy and happy. Charles was a little concerned about the spiral staircase, and suggested they camp out downstairs to save her the exertion. So they’d hired movers to swap out the bedroom and living room, with plans to move it back after the baby’s birth.

The only nagging issue at the moment was Honoria’s debutante party, which his mother refused to postpone any longer. “It’s ridiculous,” she’d fumed. “One evening to make her official presentation—that’s all I’m asking! She’s beautiful, brilliant and it’s _overdue!_ ”

Sulkily his sister had agreed, knowing her mother would be watching her like a hawk, and the party was scheduled two days from now, on Saturday at the Parker House rooftop ballroom.

Charles supposed he couldn’t blame her reluctance; society put far more requirements on women than men, and often to no particular benefit. Most of the people attending already knew Honoria and the family so at least she’d be a little more comfortable speaking for the most part. And given his mother’s talents, the catering would be top-notch, as would the quartet. All in all it would be an enjoyable evening even if Honoria was simply going through the motions.

He changed out of his scrubs and headed back to his office only to find Mina Mayfair waiting for him in the visitor’s chair, and a stab of anxiety hit Charles.

“Is something wrong?” he asked urgently, thinking of Charlotte as he closed the door of the office behind him.

Mina looked up, her expression tense. “Yes, but not with your wife. She’s fine—textbook example of smooth gestation, Charles believe me. No, this is about . . . him.”

Charles sighed. “Lord. What’s happened _now?_ ”

Over the last few months he and Mina had bonded not only over Charlotte’s pregnancy, but also through a mutual distrust of Aubrey Colman. They tried not to be conspicuous but little by little more unsettling stories began to trickle in to them from nurses and patients at the hospital, including, Charles was sorry to learn, his old friend Catherine Edgemont.

He’d caught up her by sheer luck as she was leaving an infant check-up appointment for little Hayden and talked her into a cup of coffee at the hospital cafeteria. Flattered she’d agreed and their conversation had been pleasant until Charles had mentioned Colman; immediately Catherine had tensed up, picking up her son and holding him close. 

“Yes well I no longer have to see him any longer, thank goodness.”

Charles nodded, deliberately avoiding her gaze. “True. He was almost our choice, but Charlotte . . .”

Catherine looked over at him and Charles noted how keen her glance was, so he continued. “As you know Charlotte’s a nurse—or was—and she found his examination . . . overly familiar. Unpleasantly so.”

“Yes,” Catharine interjected, nodding. “That’s it _precisely._ Charles . . . I’m not a prude, but for the longest time I wasn’t sure what bothered me about the man. I assumed that he had medical reasons for his very intimate examinations, and thought at the time that his comments were just an unfortunate part of his personality, but now . . . now all I can think is that he’s best avoided from this point on.”

“Would you make a formal complaint?” Even as he asked, Charles could see in her eyes that she wouldn’t. Catherine shook her head, stroking her tiny son’s back.

“I’m not one to make a scene and anyway, what could I say? I’m no expert in gynecology and he’d have fancy explanations for everything. Just being alone in a room with that man was enough to make me shudder.”

Her phrase stuck with him, and when Charles walked her out to the street, he gave Catherine a last reassuring hug. “I’m sorry, Cathy, I truly am,” Charles told her.

She managed a wry smile, smiling at the little bundle in the baby carriage. “It’s over now, and I have Hayden to show for it, so all water under the bridge. But between you and me, I’m SO glad Charlotte’s seeing someone else.”

In the present, Mina sighed. “Aubrey Colman has requested a second examination room, and apparently the facilities department is considering his request.”

“Another one?” Charles echoed, looking concerned. “Well that will compound the problem.”

“The one he’s got still has the double locks on it too, even though the building management knows it’s illegal. Charles, this is getting out of hand,” Mina shook her head. “If we can’t figure out a way to expose him, a serious scandal will happen, and the fallout will be disastrous for everyone here at the hospital, let alone whatever poor patient is involved.”

“Agreed,” Charles gritted his teeth. “If only there was a way to keep an eye . . . wait, that’s _it!_ ”

“What’s it?” Mina wanted to know, but Charles had crossed to his desk and fished out the huge policy binder, flipping through it quickly.

“Tell me, what does it take to get hospital policy changed, Mina?” 

She rolled her eyes. “A proposal, formal presentation, a committee to consider it and a vote by the board, generally.”

“Good. And that takes how long, roughly?” Charles demanded, looking up cheerfully.

“Anywhere from six months to years, Charles. Some changes that were proposed back when I was in _med school_ still haven’t been adopted, you know,” she snorted, crossing her arms. “What are you considering?”

“Another pair of eyes,” he murmured. “Mina, how would you feel if there was a nurse in the room with you when you were doing an intimate examination of a patient?”

“ _I’d_ be fine with . . . . oh! Oh yes,” her expression brightened. “Another trained medical professional, a . . . witness of sorts . . .”

“. . . Who could provide not only a level of comfort and support for the patient, but also a layer of professional protection for you,” Charles finished. “I saw something about medical chaperonage in the latest Massachusetts Medical Society Quarterly as a practice now being followed in Great Britain. Not necessary in my field per se, but for gynecology---”

“An ethical step forward in professional care,” Mina agreed. “More reliable than a family member. The question is, will the hospital take the practice up, particularly with Colman as head of the department?”

Charles shot her a serious look. “We will have to word the proposal _carefully_ , Mina. Make it clear that this is not only the best ethical practice, but that it’s also an imperative to raise the standards of our hospital. There can’t be _any _wiggle room for Colman to object—not on the basis of staffing or cost or efficiency. If we get Cabot on our side this change would could strip away every opportunity Colman has to see patients alone.”__

__She jumped up, grinning, and Charles wanted to laugh at how delighted she looked. “Brilliant. The MMSQ you said?”_ _

__“Yes, the spring edition I believe. How much experience do you have writing policy proposals?”_ _

__“Enough,” Mina assured him. “I’ll put my _all_ into it, believe me. It’s not perfect, but it should be, has to be enough to stop professional bullies and letchers from hiding behind their white coats and diplomas.”_ _

__“Yes,” Charles agreed with simple force. “Yes.”_ _

__*** *** ***_ _

__“Laura.”_ _

__“Laura is . . . acceptable,” Charles agreed. He lay curled around Charlotte under the covers, both of them on the verge of dozing off. Lately the two of them had taken to discussing name choices before sleeping and had weeded out a great number of them already. They’d both decided to avoid any name associated with their time in Korea, which meant no Benjamins, Maxes or Shermans, Walters or BJs._ _

__“Acceptable,” Charlotte snickered. “Charles Emerson Winchester the fourth is pretty much in the bag for a son, dear, but I’d like something for a daughter that’s more than just ‘acceptable, please.”_ _

__“Eglantine,” he offered, just to feel Charlotte giggle against him. The curve of her belly had a delightful jiggle to it now when she did so._ _

__“You made that up. Nobody is named Eglantine.”_ _

__“I beg to differ. Mother has a dear friend in England with that name. Still, Eglantine Winchester would be a mouthful for anyone. Jane?”_ _

__“Jane,” Charlotte considered it. “Straightforward. I like that one, should we have a daughter. You won’t . . . you won’t be too disappointed if we do?” he heard her ask softly._ _

__Charles ran a hand over her hip to cup the rounded curve of her stomach. “I practically raised Honoria,” he murmured to Charlotte after a moment. “Helped pick out her dresses and had tea parties with her. I braided her hair and walked her to the public gardens. A daughter would be an honor and a joy, Charlotte. There will be no second-best with our children.”_ _

__He felt her shudder a little, and recognized the sensation as a sob. Charles kissed the back of her neck as Charlotte spoke._ _

__“Thank you! I say this as the daughter from a family that believed sons were more important and I . . . I love you so much for _that_!”_ _

__He tightened his arm around her. “All I have ever wanted,” Charles murmured, “Was for the two of you to be healthy and safe through this pregnancy. Anything else is superfluous.”_ _

__“Doing our best,” Charlotte assured him. “Only seven weeks more to go.”_ _


	9. Chapter 9

_Early October, 1954_

She’d been feeling out of sorts and cranky all morning; now that Charlotte was in the last stages her frustrations were becoming as evident as her belly button. Already Charlotte had cleaned the house from top to bottom twice, (which amused Mrs. Jackson even as it alarmed her) and had taken up knitting with a vengeance, turning out hats, mittens, sweaters, and baby blankets by the basket-full. 

“I know our child will be an autumn baby but this is a little ridiculous,” Charles pointed out, holding up three different bonnets before dropping them back into the pile. “He or she will be the most _insulated_ child in all of Boston.”

“Yes well you won’t let me paint now because of the chemicals and I’ve got to have something to DO, Orso mio,” Charlotte grumbled. She’d been watching him dress as she made the bed. “It’s a lot harder to sit around and wait than I thought it would be.”

He came over and put his arms around her . . . or tried to, anyway. Charlotte’s rounded belly made it more difficult now. “Soon,” he assured her, nuzzling the crown of her head. “A few more weeks and we’ll both have more to do than we ever thought possible.”

She made a noise against his chest, a little growl of frustration and agreement. Charles laughed and hugged her a little tighter. Charlotte savored it a moment and then pulled back, looking up at him.

“So today you and Mina make the proposal?”

“Yes,” Charles sighed. “She’s written it up and I’ve gotten our lawyers to support it as a wise move both ethically and financially for the hospital but it’s not a done deal. You know how doctors are: we don’t like anyone looking over our shoulders.”

She made a face. “When they’re as good as you are, it shouldn’t matter, and if they aren’t, all the more reason to have someone watching.”

“Nicely put,” Charles laughed softly, “but the added consideration of avoiding lawsuits helps too. Which tie?”

Charlotte chose the Harvard one, and did it up for him as she did most mornings, enjoying the established intimacy of their little ritual. He often wore the Kabuki pin but today it would clash with the burgundy so Charlotte used the little gold musical note one instead.

“And in the afternoon?” she murmured.

“A lung removal,” Charles sighed. “The prognosis is less than good but I shall do what I can.”

“Of course you will,” Charlotte nodded. “I’ve got lunch with your mother and then I promised Honoria I’d help her pack up the Salem Breeze for the winter.”

He frowned, as she knew he would. “Do you think that’s safe?” Charles asked. “Given your . . . change of balance?”

“I’ll be extremely careful,” Charlotte promised him. “It’s mostly just sweeping and wiping down surfaces and Honoria could use the company.”

Which was true, Charlotte knew. Her young sister-in-law was still struggling with balancing her own wishes against those of her mother and although the debutante party had been a success, socially, Honoria wanted to wash her hands of it.

“True,” Charles acknowledged, well-aware of his sister’s mood. “It might both of you good. But please don’t exert yourselves.”

“We’ll be good,” Charlotte promised, her hands stroking his shirtfront. “At least as good as two Winchester women can be.”

“Now I’m even _more_ worried,” Charles mock-grumbled, but one corner of his mouth went up and he kissed her before reaching for his suit jacket.

*** *** ***

Charlotte met Pamela for lunch at the Union Oyster House, huffing a little as she made her way into the restaurant. The entire drive she’d been fighting a few Braxton-Hicks by breathing the way Mina had taught her. It helped too, that she found a space in a lot not too far away and that the walk was short.

“Behave,” she chided her belly. “We’re going to see Nana and you’re getting clam chowder, so be good.”

The wiggly lump inside her gave a little defiant roll, making Charlotte snicker as she crossed the doorway and spotted her mother-in-law already seated at a window-side booth. Charlotte joined her, sliding carefully into the seat opposite.

“Gracious, do you fit?” Pamela murmured, concerned. “We can always get a table.”

“I’m fine,” Charlotte assured her. “I don’t think we’re the only impatient ones now.”

“Lively today?” Pamela nodded with a soft smile. “Always a good sign.”

And Charlotte knew it was. Over the last few months she’d heard about Pamela’s pregnancies: _“Charles was the most staid child ever from womb to birth, whereas Honoria was bouncing about from the fourth month on!”_ It still amused her to think of Charles as ever having been a baby but she’d seen the evidence in the photo albums, and the black and white images of the solemn curly haired infant in his christening gown delighted her.

By comparison, Honoria’s photos were always slightly blurred although no less charming, particularly the ones of her on the rocking horse with older Charles holding its bridle. Charlotte had wondered about the thirteen year difference in their ages until Pamela told her about the three miscarriages between them, her tone matter-of-fact, her expression mild.

“Some things weren’t meant to be, and I’ll always be deeply grateful for the children I have,” Pamela added. “Even if _one_ of them is being very pig-headed at the moment.”

Charlotte hid her sigh, well-aware that the current tiff between mother and daughter was still in the frosty stages. Having given in on the matter of the debut, Honoria wanted to find a part-time job, and Pamela was having none of it.

“Winchester women do not work for _money_ ,” she reiterated. “We work for charity and noblis oblige.” 

“But it’s also a way for Honoria to deal with the general population,” Charlotte countered after the waitress had taken their usual lunch order of chowder and salad.

Pamela sniffed. “She does that already. I just don’t see why she wants to subject herself to . . . possible humiliation,” came the discouraged sigh. “Put her in front of a harp or a cello and she’s brilliant. Even at a desk, writing---I’ve read some of her poetry, yes I have—and the world is her oyster, so tell me why does she insist on this . . . .”

“Independence?” Charlotte finished softly. “It’s what young people _do_ , Pamela. I did it and I suspect you did too, back in the day.”

Her mother-in-law said nothing, but the wry little smile on her face did. She took a few sips of chowder before admitting, “Yes well I suppose so. I remember chafing a bit under my father’s rules and having my mother intercede for me on the issue of attending Smith, but we did reach a compromise. Do you think Honoria and I ever will?”

Charlotte reached over and patted her hand. “Of course you will. She’s got to be allowed to take risks, even if it’s hard on us who love her. I’ll . . . talk to her.”

After lunch and a few more reassurances, Charlotte drove to the wharf marina, feeling restless. The Braxton-Hicks had subsided, but the chowder wasn’t sitting well, and it wasn’t until she climbed out of the car that Charlotte could breathe easily. She rubbed her stomach a little and looked down the Dock number seven for the berth of the Salem Breeze. The gate was unlocked, and Charlotte trotted towards the yacht, smelling rain in the air. 

“Honoria? Are you there?” She called down.

“It’s p-permission to board,” came the amused retort, and Honoria stuck her head out from the cabin, grinning. She had a bandana holding back her hair, and smudges of dirt on one cheek. “G-Granted by the way. Need h-help?”

“I can manage,” Charlotte told her, but halfway down, she was grateful for Honoria’s arm supporting her back as she stepped onto the rocking deck. “Ooof.”

“You’re n-nuts to be helping me b-but I’m grateful,” Honoria told her, and gave her a hug.

For the next two hours Charlotte listened, advised, consoled, joked and supported her sister-in-law, giving Honoria a chance to vent and work things out for herself. It felt good to be out on the water, helping out and the only drawback was her growing backache, which had begun to throb periodically. She rubbed her spine and gratefully accepted Honoria’s offer to go bring back some bottles of cola from the bait shop.

She wandered the deck, stretching a bit and halfway through a cramp hit so hard Charlotte nearly doubled over. She grabbed the boom, clinging to it and chuffing a little, trying to focus on her breathing as panic surged through her.

_“Now?_ ” Charlotte muttered. “Oh lord.”

When the contraction began to fade, she tottered to the edge closest to the ladder and began to climb it, trying not to slip on the metal rungs. Just as she made it to the top, Charlotte felt wetness seeping down the inside of her slacks, and groaned.

“Perché ora?” she demanded of the baby. “You waited until we were out of the house, didn’t you?”

Carefully Charlotte looked around, and two things dawned on her: first, she’d left her purse on the Salem Breeze, and second, the bait shop was still a long way off.


	10. Chapter 10

“This is a waste of time,” Aubrey Colman murmured, leaning back in his chair and giving the assembled group a dry glance. “Not only that, it’s also an insult to the integrity of every doctor in my department.”

“This isn’t about insulting you or our department; it’s about protecting you. Protecting ALL of us, really,” Mina countered quietly. Charles admired how she held her temper and kept her voice gentle, even though he was aware of how much effort that took on her part. She laid a hand on the paper in front of her. “Malpractice suits are on the rise, like it or not, Doctor Colman. This is simply a . . . prophylactic measure against any possible misinterpretation of exam procedures.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Colman pointed out, his gaze sharp. “This practice would mean pulling a nurse away from her regular duties to sit and watch a routine procedure up to four or five times a day! Not to mention making the patients uncomfortable—what female patient would want an _audience_ for a pelvic exam?”

There was a little murmur around the table, and Charles sensed a few of his colleagues were agreeing with Colman. He cleared his throat and they looked at him.

“Given that the average exam is less than fifteen minutes—or should be, I’m told—the inconvenience to our nurses would be minor. And having a credible witness testify on the hospital’s behalf if necessary should a lawsuit or any serious accusations come up seems like common sense. Speaking as a husband and a brother, I myself would feel much more confident in the gynecological care of my wife or sister knowing a medical chaperone was available as part of our fine hospital’s services.”

There was a little pause, and Charles caught Cabot’s approving gaze from the head of the table. Mina looked hopeful but Colman was now scowling hard.

“I don’t like your _implication_ , Doctor Winchester. Having a chaperone would plant doubts in the minds of our patients and undermine their confidence in us as professionals. I suggest you’re biased because of your wife’s current pregnancy but I’m not willing to support this proposal simply because you’re overprotective of her.”

It was a brilliant counter and Charles hesitated, but Mina spoke up, her tone firm. “Whatever you may think, Aubrey, the fact is that a single malpractice suit could cost us thousands of dollars as well as our reputation as the best hospital in Boston. Memorial over in Lynn is now bankrupt, and the pending case against St. Elizabeth in New York is all but draining them dry. If _the only thing_ it takes to prevent that sort of disaster in our department is having a nurse sit in on a procedure for ten minutes, then I think the wisest ethical and judicious course for us is clear.” 

Charles glanced around at his colleagues, a few more of whom were nodding faintly. Cabot waded into the pause, his tone thoughtful.

“Doctor Mayfair, are you absolutely sure that the financial impact of adding this duty to our nursing staff is negligible?”

“Yes sir,” she told him. “It aligns with their protocols and the overlap of duty roster would insure we had adequate coverage at all times, both for the floor and the offices. I’ve checked with the head nurse on this several times.”

“Very well then,” Cabot replied. “Barring any further objections, I will put your plan before the hospital governing board for their next meeting.”

Aubrey Colman looked mutinous and Charles saw him linger behind as the rest of the department heads left, most likely to bend Cabot’s ear further on the matter, but he suspected—hoped-- it would be useless. Much as the governing board enjoyed the status symbol employing top doctors, they were a financially conservative lot, mortally petrified of major lawsuits and malpractice cases. If Cabot presented the practice just as Mina had laid it out, the Board would most likely approve it, particularly since it didn’t cost anything.

He checked his watch, noting it was nearly two, and was considering a late lunch when he spotted Nurse Sheridan hurrying towards him, her gaze slightly anxious. Charles stopped, waiting for her to reach him.

Bonnie Sheridan was a gawky older woman with a riot of freckles and dark hair that tended to escape from under her cap, but Charles knew she was dedicated to her profession and further, that she’d served in the Philippines during the Second World War. Consequently his exasperated fondness for her allowed a few liberties, and one of them was to interrupt him when necessary.

“Doctor Winchester,” she puffed, reaching him and stopping to catch her breath. “Oh, I shouldn’t have run those stairs!”

“Take a breath, nurse, before you pass out,” he commented, giving her a wry smile. “What is it? A problem with Mr. Morrison?”

“Nope,” she assured him, straightening up, her face still a little red. “Your wife called; her water broke and she’s coming in.”

Charles stiffened, a jolt of alarm and anticipation running through him. “When? When did she call?”

“About five minutes ago. Ran to find you after I hung up,” Nurse Sheridan told him with a grin.

Impetuously Charles hugged her and smiled down into her face. “Thank you! All right, I’ll be down in Obstetrics.”

“All right, Doctor, good luck!” she called to his disappearing back as she rubbed the stitch in her side.

Ten minutes stretched into an hour, and Charles found his worry increasing exponentially. He’d called the admissions desk to alert them, but they reported that there had been no arrivals yet. He paced the long hallway of the Obstetrics wing, trying not to think of worst case scenarios. Phone calls had proved fruitless: Mrs. Jackson hadn’t seen Charlotte since the latter had left for lunch, and no-one was answering at his parent’s house. Out of desperation Charles considered driving to the wharf himself but feared missing Charlotte should she reach the hospital concurrently . . . 

“This is insane!” he growled at Mina, who also checked her watch. “It’s barely a mile from Boston Wharf to the hospital, what in God’s name could be the delay?”

“She may have trouble driving if she’s in labor,” Mina pointed out.

Charles groaned, rubbing his face. “Oh God. Honoria’s driving! My sister is driving and since she hasn’t got a license she’s probably going at a snail’s pace!”

A siren wailed, and both Mina and Charles looked up, bolting for the end of the hall, heading for the ambulance bay. When they reached the garage, the rolling doors opened, but instead of an ambulance, a police motorcycle with sidecar came puttering in, pulling up to the ramp. 

Charles gave a sigh of relief; Charlotte waved weakly from the sidecar, and Honoria let go of the policeman she’d been clinging to as she hopped off the back of the motorcycle. All three of them helped Charlotte out.

“Made it,” she laughed, giving Charles a quick hug. “Long story but we are _definitely_ donating to the Boston Police Foundation this year.”

“In s-spades,” Honoria agreed as Mina rolled a wheelchair forward. After helping Charlotte into it, squatted down next to her.

“Time?” Mina demanded, checking her patient’s pulse.

“About twelve minutes apart, maybe a little shorter,” Charlotte admitted. “Strong.”

“Stage two,” Mina announced. “Come on Mrs. Winchester, time to get into bed.”

“Thank you,” Charles told the burly patrolman, who was blushing. “I’m deeply grateful.”

“Glad to help,” he replied pointing a thumb at Honoria. “Especially after this one nearly sideswiped me to get my attention.”

After they’d settled Charlotte into a private room, and after Mina had given her patient strict instructions to keep track of her contractions before going to fetch her chart, Charles managed to get the whole story from them both.

“So you’ve been in labor all _day_?” he blurted, scandalized. “Charlotte!” 

“I didn’t _realize_ it!” she yelped back. “Contractions are like cramps, so I wasn’t thinking it was labor, orso mio! I just thought the baby was being a bully today!”

“C-C-Crazy,” Honoria agreed, shaking her head. “I had to g-get her purse, and then I f-f-flooded the engine because I was nervous! Got the car g-going and we hit that construction t-t-traffic on S-S-State Street!”

“Gah!” Charlotte agreed. “Potholes _every_ where! They wanted to detour us up Cross and I knew we couldn’t wait so I had Honoria cut off the police officer. She got pretty close, but luckily the officer saw me and we got an escort in. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh . . . .” her comment trailed off as she hunched forward. 

Charles took her hands, letting her squeeze them hard. “Charlotte . . .”

“S’okayyy,” she sighed, wincing. “Baby’s getting impatient.”

Mina returned and shooed them out regretfully. “Sorry Charles, but you know the policy,” she dropped her voice and added, “Bring your files and work in my office though, if you’d like. The one with the connecting door to the labor room.”

\--oo00oo--

And that was how he ended up holding Charlotte’s sweat-slicked hand, letting her mangle his fingers with hers from late that night into the wee hours of the next morning. Charles found himself overwhelmed, torn between anguish for Charlotte’s pain, and growing joy when the baby finally came forth, delivered into Mina’s gentle gloved grip, crying lustily. Mina gently wiped the baby’s face, and after measurement, weighing and diapering, set the child up on Charlotte’s chest, tucking a receiving blanket around the little form.

“I hope you’ve got a good name picked out,” Mina murmured. “Charlotte you’re a trouper! All right, let’s get this placenta passed and then ALL of you can get some rest.”

“Grace,” Charlotte sighed. Charles nodded, reaching to cup a hand around their tiny daughter’s face. Her cries lessened, and the feel of her warm skin sent a jolt of love through him. 

“Grace,” he agreed, his voice trembling. “We have been so very touched by it today, Charlotte my love.”

She gave a weak chuckle, curving her arm around the baby even as she groaned through another after-contraction. “Grace Mariah Winchester. I think you’ve got some phone calls to make, orso mio. And some cigars to pass out.”


	11. Chapter 11

_Late October, dawn_

Charlotte didn’t open her eyes, but felt her husband rise out of bed, the mattress shifting at the change of weight. From her bassinet, Grace was whimpering but it faded when Charles picked her up.

“Good morning, dear baby,” he rumbled, making soothing noises. “Shhh, it’s all right, all right.”

Charlotte felt him begin the little ritual of walking to and fro at the foot of the bed and risked a peek, catching sight of Charles in his pajamas, rubbing a soothing hand along Grace’s back. The baby, bright-eyed and excited, was kicking a little and starting to drool.

The sweet sight was enough to make Charlotte blink hard. Never had she ever thought she would see Charles Emerson Winchester the third contentedly settling into the role of fatherhood, much less a hands-on father. Yet here he was humming and talking to baby Grace about an upcoming valve repair and completely comfortable with an infant against his shoulder.

Grace gave a little squeal and Charlotte felt her breasts respond. She rolled over and tucked her pillows against the headboard as Charles turned and began towards her. “Yes, yes, breakfast,” she told the baby, who was actively wiggling now. Charlotte settled her daughter against her own stomach and helped the baby latch on, feeling a tug of pain/pleasure before settling back against the headboard.

Charles watched her sighing; nursing was the one area they’d disagreed on, initially. Charlotte was determined to breastfeed from the moment she’d learned she was pregnant while Charles had wanted her to bottle feed so she wouldn’t have to take on the responsibility all on her own.

“The new formulas are just as nourishing, and you would be free to share the duty,” Charles argued. “Something my mother would _adore_ the chance to do, as would I.”

But Charlotte had put her foot down. “No,” she told him firmly. “It’s my sacred duty, orso mio. I would not have been given this . . . abundanza unless the good Lord wanted me to use it, and anyway, I want to.”

And so she had. While reluctant at first, Charles admitted that Grace’s appetite and thriving birth-weight gave credence to the choice. He settled back onto the bed and watched, reaching out to play with the baby’s bare toes.

“She’s becoming quite the little cub,” Charles mused. “And so very long for a baby.”

“Height,” Charlotte approved. “Not a shortie like her mother here. Oh, gentle, gentle little girl.” This last was to her daughter who was nursing determinedly. “So a valve repair today?”

“Yes, and then checking up on a few post-operative patients. We also need to set up for the pediatric ward to trick or treat in the afternoon,” Charles replied absently. “Mina talked me into helping.”

“I doubt she had to try very hard,” Charlotte smiled. “Maybe Grace and I will stop by to watch.”

“That would be wonderful,” Charles agreed, “Oh, and I have some good news—Father Mulcahy is going to be in town next week to visit the hospital’s audiology department of all things.”

Charlotte brightened. “Really? Oh Charles, this means we can ask him—“

“--To christen Grace, yes,” Charles agreed, “Although it may have to be a private affair given how quickly it would have to be put together. I hope that’s not too disappointing.”

Charlotte shot him a merry smile. “Given how instrumental the good Father was in getting _us_ together in the first place, nothing can be disappointing now.”

Baby Grace gave a little mewl and let go of the nipple, burping softly and making her parents laugh.

“Round two,” Charlotte sighed, shifting her daughter to the other breast while Charles reluctantly rose and headed to the bathroom to shower.

*** *** ***

Traveling with Grace was a complicated affair since it involved a Moses basket for the front seat and a collapsible baby buggy in the trunk, but Charlotte managed, mostly because Grace was generally cooperative. Still, it took planning and a little help from Mrs. Jackson before Charlotte was able to head out to the hospital. Fortunately the traffic was light, and she was able to find parking within a reasonable walk.

The buggy was English; a baby shower gift from Pamela. It had high brougham wheels that took a little practice to unpack and lock, but Charlotte had worked with it at home and was comfortable in setting it up now. Once Grace was deposited inside, looking bright-eyed and pleased in her pink crocheted ensemble, Charlotte wheeled her towards the hospital, cooing sweetly. 

The admittance lobby had only a few people in it, but Charlotte knew it would fill before the night was over. Halloween was an odd holiday, full of mishaps and accidents that were generally the result of stunts and pranks that misfired. Even the 4077th wasn’t immune, as Charlotte remembered with a wince. Still, as she made her way into the hospital, the admissions nurse grinned.

“Ohh, and how is our Grace?”

The baby allowed herself to be smiled at and cooed over; Charlotte was amused at how her daughter took the attention in stride for such a little thing. After some small talk, Charlotte managed to wheel the carriage down towards the Obstetrics wing, amused at the little paper bats and black cats that lined the hallways. She guided the buggy carefully, making sure to leave room for people passing by, and finally reached Mina’s office, which had a spiderweb of gauze around it.

“Welcome to my lair,” Mina teased as Charlotte rolled the buggy in. “And how is the princess of Acorn Street?”

“Thriving,” Charlotte was pleased to report. “A regular piglet at meals, very regular in her bowel movements and not prone to colic. I think she’s put on at least half a pound since her last checkup.”

“I’m not surprised,” Mina nodded, picking Grace up and holding her expertly. “Don’t you look pretty in pink.”

They chatted a while and finally a nurse came bustling in, looking a little perplexed. “Doctor Mayfair, do you have a key to Doctor Colman’s office? He agreed to let us use it but he doesn’t seem to be around.”

“Passive aggressive,” Mina murmured as she handed Grace to Charlotte. “As usual. I don’t have a key but the head custodian does. Let me page him . . .”

By the time the custodian had arrived and unlocked the office door, the first of the trick or treaters were making their way down the hall, most accompanied by nurses or aides. Charlotte moved the buggy out of the way and held Grace while she helped hand out some of the candy. Most of the patients were decked out in homemade costumes and were carrying pillowcases for their treats. One girl in a wheelchair was utterly delighted with Grace and asked to hold her a little, which Charlotte agreed to.

Gradually she spotted Charles helping a young teen on a gurney down the hall and watched him chat quietly with the boy, who was wrapped as a mummy. When they reached Mina’s door, Charlotte gave her husband a smile. “Tutankhamen I presume?"

The boy gave a weak chuckle. “Wanted to be Zorro. Maybe next year. Trick or treat?”

She handed him the chocolate bar. “Who’s to say you’re not Don Diego after a very rough battle?”

The boy brightened. “I didn’t think of that!”

Charles laughed. “It’s the part of the story they don’t mention, Albert; heroes need to heal too.”

“Yeah,” the boy agreed, sighing. “All of them but Superman. Thank you.”

Charles gave both Grace and Charlotte little kisses and rolled his patient down the hall, reaching the last nurse at Colman’s door as she watched, feeling a surge of tenderness for him and the boy. 

“Your father is a good man,” she assured Grace, who merely blinked and waved a fist.

After forty minutes the last of the trick or treaters began to thin out, and Charlotte knew by the heaviness of her breasts that it was nearly time to feed Grace. The only empty office was Colman’s and reluctantly she rolled the buggy there. She settled in at the desk, trying to get Grace to latch on when her knee bumped the middle drawer.

It popped open.

Charlotte stared at the glossy photographs and felt as if she’d been punched. After a few seconds of shock, she felt Grace squirm, and protectively pulled her closer even as she reached for the intercom.

“M-Mina?” Charlotte quavered. “I . . . could you come here please?”

“Of course,” came Mina’s blithe tone.

That changed the minute she came around the desk.

*** *** *** 

The charges against Aubrey Colman included pornography; violation of physician ethics; violation of obscenity statutes and molestation of patients. Charlotte was called to testify as was Mina, three of the Gynecology nurses and the chief of security in closed hearings before both the board of the hospital and the Boston prosecutor’s office.

A search warrant revealed other, older collections of pelvic exam photos and a lurid correspondence with a network of fetishists across the country that spanned ten years. Charlotte tried to keep calm but it was difficult when she saw the names of women who had been called to identify themselves. Through it all Mina and Charles worked tirelessly to help prosecute Colman.

She prayed, and meeting up again with Father Mulcahy helped. Greyer, and with a hearing aid now, he seemed as serene as ever. He held Grace as she slept, and comforted Charlotte as best he could.

“You were in the right place at the right time,” he assured her. “I know it’s difficult to feel anything positive at the moment, but it took courage and honesty to bring him down, Charlotte.”

“But those poor women,” she sighed. “All those prior victims!”

“Yes,” Father Mulcahy agreed gently, “I will be praying for them as well. We may never know all of them, but the Lord does and will give them his peace in his time.”

Charlotte held his gaze. “You truly believe that?”

He smiled softly. “I do. And somewhere in you and Charles you do as well. It just takes time to acknowledge. In the meantime, we have this little one to bring into the flock.”


	12. Epilog

Grace Mariah Winchester was baptized at her grandparent’s home on Myrtle Street using holy water in the good silver tureen. She gave a little wiggly gasp when Father Mulcahy poured the cool water off the scallop shell onto her head, but otherwise accepted the ceremony in fairly good temper. Her grandmother cried as did her mother, and the rest of her family had the sniffles as she was passed around and kissed by everyone, including the priest. 

“You’re a natural with babies,” Pamela marveled, making Father Mulcahy smile.

“They are the Lord’s littlest lambs, and darned cute to boot,” he told her as he smiled at Grace. “And I’m honored to be here.”

He visited with Charlotte and Charles when Grace napped, sharing what he knew of mutual friends. “I’ve stayed in touch with the orphanage and the sister of course, but I’ve found work through various hospitals in Saint Louis and met up with the Colonel as well; he arranged for surgery for my hearing and I’ll probably have another minor one soon. Hawkeye wrote me that he’s doing private practice with his father but that he’d like to get back to surgery at some point. Major Houlihan is training nurses at Fort Bragg.”

“Seems everyone’s found their niche,” Charles observed. “And Hunnicutt?”

“I believe he’s chief of surgery at the rehabilitation center associated the Presidio,” Father Mulcahy replied. “A good fit for him, I think.”

“Yes,” Charlotte agreed. “He was always concerned about follow-up care even when it wasn’t always possible at the unit.”

“Good doctors, all of them,” Charles murmured quietly. “Even Margaret, who probably knows as much about medicine as we do.”

“Hear hear,” Father Mulcahy nodded. 

He turned down the offer to stay for dinner and when Charles returned from driving him to the airport, Charlotte had Grace in the baby carriage ready for a Saturday stroll through the Gardens.  
The November air was brisk, but Grace looked sweet in her knitted bonnet and sweater as they made their way along the paths amid the bare trees. Charles sighed happily, and Charlotte gave him a questioning look.

“Soon she’ll be old enough for the swan boats,” he pointed out. “And then skating at the Frog Pond, and concerts at the bandstand, and—”

“—One thing at a time,” Charlotte laughed. “These are good years and I think we should savor them, beloved. There will be time for Make Way for Ducklings and family photographs and finger painting and vacations and violin lessons I’m sure. It’s all in front of us, waiting to be lived.”

Charles smiled at her, squeezing her arm where it was linked with his as they continued their stroll. “Well said, dear heart, well said. Contentment begins today.”

End


End file.
